declared Dr Gilhooley in his soft Irish brogue. He appeared very impressed as he examined Eve’s right side. ‘And quite a beautiful specimen
of it, too.’
‘Shingles?’ Wasn’t that something old people got, thought Eve.
‘I’m presuming you had chicken pox as a child,’ said the doctor as he wrote out a prescription.
Oh yes. She’d had chicken pox one Christmas. She’d been in bed feeling lousy whilst the sounds of her mother’s party from the floor below filtered up to her. People kept coming
into her room thinking it was the toilet.
‘Well, the virus doesn’t leave your body. It stays there waiting for a time to spring back into life again,’ went on Dr Gilhooley with all the drama of a Shakespearean
actor.
‘I’ve got grown-up chicken pox?’ Eve questioned. Never. She felt as if she had been run over by a steamroller.
‘I thought it might be shingles when I saw the rash and heard the symptoms. Jeff once had it in the same place,’ said Susan. Eve hadn’t made it all the way home when she set
off from Winterworld. The pain had forced her to curtail her journey and make a pit stop at her aunt’s in the hope she could borrow some more supplies of ibuprofen. Susan had taken one look
at her niece and pushed her into Violet’s old room, then she rang for the doctor. Dr Gilhooley seemed almost smitten by the superior rash on her stomach. He appraised it like a Van Gogh
masterpiece.
‘Stress sometimes brings it on,’ said the doctor, handing over the prescription he had just scribbled to Susan, who was already putting on her coat to go to the pharmacy for it.
‘Give her some ibuprofen to start with. There are some strong painkillers on that prescription. She’ll need them.’
‘I remember my Jeff getting it,’ returned Susan. ‘He was absolutely felled by it.’
Eve was so tired.
‘I’ll just have a little nap, Auntie Susan, then I’ll be out of your hair,’ she said. Susan and Doctor Gilhooley both gave a highly amused bark of laughter.
‘You’re going nowhere, young lady. For a start, you’re highly infectious and secondly, you will need to rest.’
‘She doesn’t know what rest is. That’s why she’s got shingles, most likely,’ said Susan, turning to the doctor. ‘But she sure as hell is going to
learn.’
‘I can’t rest,’ said Eve, struggling to keep her eyes from shuttering down. ‘I’ve got too much work to do. I’ve got novelties to find, reindeer to cancel . .
.’
‘Never mind all that,’ said Dr Gilhooley, presuming she was hallucinating. He closed up his old-fashioned Gladstone bag. ‘You can lie back in bed for the next couple of weeks
and dream about them instead.’
‘Couple of weeks?’ Eve tried to swing her legs out of bed but the pain in her back was just too much.
‘Oh, at least,’ said the crusty-voiced doctor. ‘You’ll have to let someone else do the running for a while now.’
‘You can make one phone call,’ said Susan, reaching for Eve’s handbag, ‘then I’m confiscating your mobile.’
‘I’m allowed one phone call? Have I suddenly been transported to prison?’
‘Yes,’ said her aunt sternly. ‘Until you’re better, you are in my prison.’
Eve weakly hunted in her bag for her mobile but Susan had to help her in the end. As her aunt followed the doctor out, Eve rang Jacques’ number with a feeling of dread as heavy in her
stomach as the ache in her back was.
‘Ah, Lady Douglas. How are you? Feeling more comfortable I hope,’ came his annoyingly joyous voice.
‘Never felt better,’ said Eve, yawning. ‘Apparently I have shingles and am going to have to take a couple of days off.’
‘Ooh, nasty,’ he drew a long intake of breath. ‘Well, don’t worry, Winterworld is in safe hands with me.’
About as safe as an orphanage would be in Herod’s.
‘I took some papers home to look at and sign last night. I need to get them back to you to countersign,’ said Eve.
‘Don’t worry about
of it, too.’
‘Shingles?’ Wasn’t that something old people got, thought Eve.
‘I’m presuming you had chicken pox as a child,’ said the doctor as he wrote out a prescription.
Oh yes. She’d had chicken pox one Christmas. She’d been in bed feeling lousy whilst the sounds of her mother’s party from the floor below filtered up to her. People kept coming
into her room thinking it was the toilet.
‘Well, the virus doesn’t leave your body. It stays there waiting for a time to spring back into life again,’ went on Dr Gilhooley with all the drama of a Shakespearean
actor.
‘I’ve got grown-up chicken pox?’ Eve questioned. Never. She felt as if she had been run over by a steamroller.
‘I thought it might be shingles when I saw the rash and heard the symptoms. Jeff once had it in the same place,’ said Susan. Eve hadn’t made it all the way home when she set
off from Winterworld. The pain had forced her to curtail her journey and make a pit stop at her aunt’s in the hope she could borrow some more supplies of ibuprofen. Susan had taken one look
at her niece and pushed her into Violet’s old room, then she rang for the doctor. Dr Gilhooley seemed almost smitten by the superior rash on her stomach. He appraised it like a Van Gogh
masterpiece.
‘Stress sometimes brings it on,’ said the doctor, handing over the prescription he had just scribbled to Susan, who was already putting on her coat to go to the pharmacy for it.
‘Give her some ibuprofen to start with. There are some strong painkillers on that prescription. She’ll need them.’
‘I remember my Jeff getting it,’ returned Susan. ‘He was absolutely felled by it.’
Eve was so tired.
‘I’ll just have a little nap, Auntie Susan, then I’ll be out of your hair,’ she said. Susan and Doctor Gilhooley both gave a highly amused bark of laughter.
‘You’re going nowhere, young lady. For a start, you’re highly infectious and secondly, you will need to rest.’
‘She doesn’t know what rest is. That’s why she’s got shingles, most likely,’ said Susan, turning to the doctor. ‘But she sure as hell is going to
learn.’
‘I can’t rest,’ said Eve, struggling to keep her eyes from shuttering down. ‘I’ve got too much work to do. I’ve got novelties to find, reindeer to cancel . .
.’
‘Never mind all that,’ said Dr Gilhooley, presuming she was hallucinating. He closed up his old-fashioned Gladstone bag. ‘You can lie back in bed for the next couple of weeks
and dream about them instead.’
‘Couple of weeks?’ Eve tried to swing her legs out of bed but the pain in her back was just too much.
‘Oh, at least,’ said the crusty-voiced doctor. ‘You’ll have to let someone else do the running for a while now.’
‘You can make one phone call,’ said Susan, reaching for Eve’s handbag, ‘then I’m confiscating your mobile.’
‘I’m allowed one phone call? Have I suddenly been transported to prison?’
‘Yes,’ said her aunt sternly. ‘Until you’re better, you are in my prison.’
Eve weakly hunted in her bag for her mobile but Susan had to help her in the end. As her aunt followed the doctor out, Eve rang Jacques’ number with a feeling of dread as heavy in her
stomach as the ache in her back was.
‘Ah, Lady Douglas. How are you? Feeling more comfortable I hope,’ came his annoyingly joyous voice.
‘Never felt better,’ said Eve, yawning. ‘Apparently I have shingles and am going to have to take a couple of days off.’
‘Ooh, nasty,’ he drew a long intake of breath. ‘Well, don’t worry, Winterworld is in safe hands with me.’
About as safe as an orphanage would be in Herod’s.
‘I took some papers home to look at and sign last night. I need to get them back to you to countersign,’ said Eve.
‘Don’t worry about
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